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Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrfis met,
Are at their favoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks found
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade;

and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the live-long day-light fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How fairy Mab the junkets eat;
She was pinch'd, and pull’d, she said,
And he, by friar's lanthorn led,
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy fiail hath thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubbar fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Balks at the fire his hairy ftrength,


And crop-full out of doors he Alings,
Ere the first cock his mattin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds foon lull'd afleep.

Tow'red cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mak and antique pageantry,
Such fights as youthful poets dream,
On fummer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned fock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's Child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting foul may pierce,
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden fouls of Harmony;

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That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian Aowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regain’d Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.


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ENCE vain deluding joys,

The brood of folly without father bred !
How little you bested,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ? Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes pofless, As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the fun-beams,
Or likest hovering dreams,

· The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail, thou Goddess, fage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose faintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker view,
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnon's filter might beseem,


Or that starr'd Ethiope queen that strove
To set her beauties praise above
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended :
Yet thou art higher far descended;
Thee bright hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering bowers, and glades
He-met her, and in secret shades
: Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable stole of cypress lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy wrapt soul fitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hear the Muses in a ring,
Aye round about Jove's altar fing;
And add to these retired Leisure.
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ;


But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Han that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation:
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her fweetest, faddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak;
Sweet bird that shun'it the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy !
Thee, chauntrefs, oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy evening fong :
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-thaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way;
And oft as if her head she bow'd
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfew sound,
Over fome wide-water'd shore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar.

Or if the air will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room,
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,

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